New Order
by Nyarlaathotep
Summary: After the fall of Mother Base, the survivors of the attack are left with almost nothing. This is their story.
1. Chapter 1

**New Order**

 **Part One : Stray Dog**

 **First Chapter**

The raindrops were falling in straight lines down into the dark sea of the Caribbeans, making a soft but loud ambient noise. On the main platform, men were preparing for the inspection, running in all directions in their damp fatigues while their superiors yelled orders from the upper decks. Their tasks ranged from fetching papers, to moving heavy metal containers around. Away from the rest, on one of the secondary platforms, at the top of the main medical building, Artyom, alone, was looking at his comrades, quite satisfied to have been assigned to the role of lookout for that night. It wasn't that he didn't like to help, he loved his job, and his colleagues, even the Boss, but he enjoyed, needed even, to be alone like this, away from the rest. An when he did meet another member of MSF, during the course of his shift or when he went back to sleep, he felt that the exchange that ensued was somehow better, more sincere. Although the moments when they ate together, in big numbers, with people from all ranks and departments, sometimes with the Boss himself, were great moments, nothing could beat, in his opinion, a long moment of loneliness punctuated with short conversations with the other guards he came across during a night shift. But tonight, the usual silence of Mother Base was broken by an agitation rarely seen in the very disciplined environment that it was most of the time. Almost all the personnel was mobilized on the main platforms, which formed a bright circle of light, noise and movement in the damp, dark night. It was harder for Artyom to watch the sea around the platform, since power had been cut due to a failure that could not be fixed yet because of the inspection, thus forcing them to redirect the power of the emergency generators to the central platforms during the time necessary to finish preparing the inspection.

Somehow, the spectacle of all these men and women working hard under the rain, in the middle of the night, following confused orders, was a pleasant and rejoicing one. Because despite the chaos, everyone of them was at their place, a small but significant part of something greater than themselves. Their very own nation, a nation of freedom, a nation of warriors, built around no ethnicity or religion, but with one ideal in mind: they would become the army of those who could not afford one, accepting of all, and selling to none, unsullied by the ideologies that brought about the cold war. Artyom was happy here. Although he was, or rather, he had been Russian, and a fervent patriot, it did not trouble him the least to be working for an organization that had been founded by ex-members of the US military, and surrounded by soldiers from all nations around the globe, speaking almost every language there is. Men, women, of all color and religion, tired of a bipolar world, formed a single society, united and strong. On the Mother Base they called themselves "children of Big Boss", an army without a nation, fittingly named "MILITAIRES SANS FRONTIERES".

This nation had grown, from a few dozen members at its foundation, to several hundred that were now almost all together on the central platforms of the gigantic offshore complex they called home. It was big enough to host them all, and attend all the needs of a miniature society; there was a medical center, a shooting range, a research center, and even an entertainment platform, all within this metallic military city standing 40 feet above the sea.

Artyom noticed a helicopter departing from one of the dark platforms. It swoop almost silently towards the platform where he was standing, and went over it swiftly, but not enough for Artyom not to notice it was the Boss's chopper, the one he used to go to the mission areas. It was likely that most of the personnel, in the middle of all this noise, did not notice the aircraft flying away in the distance. It seemed to be headed in the direction of the continent. It was almost midnight, and the UN inspectors were supposed to arrive at 2 a.m..

"Where do you think he's going" asked a voice behind Artyom, who turned out to be Taggart's

"He? You mean the Boss?"  
"Well, yeah. I don't think I ever recall seeing the chopper flying without him in it" she said.

"How can you be sure?"  
"I don't know, I was just wondering I guess. It would be weird for him to leave us when the inspection's just about to start."  
"I don't think that it's him. Maybe it was the only chopper still available, you know, with all that mess, and the power outage..."  
"Yeah, you're probably right. By the way, your English has improved a lot since last time we spoke"  
"Really? Well thank you! When was that? I believe we haven't talked in a while..."  
"I had several missions in the past months, tough ones. So I asked to be assigned to base facilities for a while. It's quieter. What about you?"  
"I'll take part in my first op for MSF in about a week, I passed all the medical exams and the training"  
"And where will that be?"

"Africa. We are to rescue child-soldiers for a Nigerian NGO."  
"Good luck with that.I'm sure you'll do fine there. Hey! Did you hear that they're gonna build a movie theater on the new residential platform?"

"Really? I didn't know!"  
"Yep. A full-sized one. Apparently, it was a request of that shady Japanese guy from the research unit. He's a big movie buff I think"  
"Never seen him or heard of him"  
"Well I don't know exactly what he's doing, but he's said to be a valuable member of MSF. He sure seems to think he is, anyway"  
"That ought to be cool. The movie theater I mean."  
"Yep, I..."

Taggart was suddenly petrified. For half a second, A. thought about asking her why, but then he heard what she had seen just a second ago, and turned around to behold the central platform, ablaze, surrounded by military helicopters, some firing missiles at the central platform, others tracking down the fleeing survivors on the neighboring platforms. Some were stationary, and armed men in black descended from them along ropes down onto the platforms, shooting at the armed and the unarmed alike. It was a massacre. Within a few minutes, hundreds died, and the central platform started to collapse down into the sea, causing the surrounding platforms to shake tremendously.

"We have to move" whispered Taggart, so shocked that she was unable to speak any louder.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The white spotlights that illuminated the heart of Mother Base had been replaced by great, orange flames from which Artyom and Taggart could see their colleagues escaping, screaming. The luckiest ones were shot before they could get anywhere, others jumped into the sea, others ended up falling from the platforms, blinded by fire and pain, to their almost certain death. Small groups of MSF members had started to take arms and fire back at the attackers, in order to keep them from reaching the outer platforms. They were under-armed, under-equipped, and mostly unprepared, some of the members of the non-combat teams, inexperienced, had taken the weapons of their fallen comrades in a desperate attempt to push back their foes. Heterogeneous groups of scientists, cooks, and members of the various professions that made up the people of Mother Base, some with just their underwear, were assembling at the end of the bridges between the platforms, in a collective effort to save what they saw as their home, and their family. But most of them were well aware that their defeat was only a matter of minutes, given the overwhelming superiority of the enemy, both in numbers and firepower.

Artyom knew, from the moment he saw the main platform collapsing down into the sea, that this life was over. MSF had already been struck too hard for it to rise again. Most of its members were probably already dead, or fatally wounded, and the few, if any, who would survive, would have to keep the physical and mental scars of having lost their family for the rest of their lives. All the joy the organization had given them, all the moments of camaraderie they shared together were already being buried under the sea along with the home they spent years and years to build for themselves. As he squeezed the trigger of his rifle, angry tears began to cloud his vision, making it harder to spot the enemy in the apocalyptic firestorm of the half-collapsed platform. But he kept shooting, emptying all his magazines, unable to distinguish any of what the others said around him, until an explosion pulled him from his state of oblivious rage.

They had blown up the bridge to prevent them from reaching the medical center.

« Get to cover ! » somebody yelled.

The small group of survivors ran back to the building, to shield themselves from enemy fire. One of them, half-naked, was shot in the back. He fell on the cold, wet, metal ground without anyone noticing before they had reached the door to the closest building. He watched them, a child-like incomprehension in his watery eyes, as they slowly faded away into eternal darkness.

But there was no time to weep.

Taggart took the lead of the small team, in the search of weapons that could push back, or at least hinder the assault of the helicopters. But as this was the medical platform, nothing was to be found, and time was running short. They quickly became more and more agitated, as their search was still fruitless.

« We're gonna die. It's over », said a soldier

« Shut up ! », replied Taggart's voice from the neighboring room  
« Everyone is dead, even the Boss, we're screwed ! » he continued nonetheless »  
« Are you sure ? », replied a scientist, « I was on the main platform, he wasn't there. Haven't seen him anyway »  
« We... we saw his chopper departing, some time before the attack » said in a shaky voice Artyom, who was seated against a wall, staring blankly at his empty rifle »  
« You think he left us ? You think he knew ? », said the scientist.

« I don't... No. He would never do that. He's Big Boss », Artyom replied firmly  
« You guys seem to have a lot of faith into your boss ! », said one of the soldiers, sardonically

« Since when are you here ? » Taggart asked him vehemently  
« Two weeks, why ? »  
« What's your name ? »

« Cameron. »  
« Listen to me, _Cameron_. This place is more than a military base. You don't know the Boss, what he's done, what he means to us all, you don't know shit. », continued Taggart as her voice grew colder with every word _  
«_ Oh everyone knows your boss. He's very famous among all military groups. A real legend. You know the thing about legends ? They're made up. Everyone told me about that Peace Walker incident when I got here. Do you really think he did all this? What would a woman know about war anyway, real war ? »

That was too much. In the blink of an eye, Taggart, who an instant ago was at the other end of the room, had reached Cameron, who pulled his combat knife from his belt but was forced to let it fall when he felt an intense pain in his right arm. Before he could understand how, he was lying on the ground, his lungs empty from the shock, looking up at Taggart. She was handing him back his knife, which she had caught in mid-air, holding it by the blade. In her eyes, melancholy had replaced anger.

« If I believe the stories », she started, in a sad voice, « it's because I was there. Many of us didn't make it. I had to mourn the loss some of my closest friends. But MSF was there, always. And now, it's all over. Too many dead. Too many to mourn. Too many to avenge. And we'll probably be done for in minutes. This place is the only home I ever had. I'm not leaving. And I'm not letting it go without taking as many lives as I can. »

Cameron sheathed his knife, and picked up his rifle without uttering a word. He followed Taggart, as she went into the corridor that lead to the other other bridge, and the rest got up silently to join them. It was at this moment that, in a loud noise, the platform shook violently before dangerously tilting. Instinctively, all followed Taggart, who had naturally assumed the lead of the small improvised unit, as she was obviously the most experienced combatant and she knew Mother Base better than any of them. She thus took them through the maze of the medical complex, until they reached a door that led outside.

Mother Base was now completely in flames. Not a single platform had been spared by the incendiary bombs, and the helicopters had now started to launch missiles at the large pillars that held the platforms above the sea. Some of them were already down, leaving fiery remains floating at the feet of the other s, helpless survivors trying to swim to them under the fire of the attackers, trying in vain to escape the spotlights of their helicopters in a ocean of their own blood.

The helicopter that had already struck the medical platform was hovering just in front of them, about to unleash another missile to make it collapse for good. In a move of despair, Taggart drew her pistol and emptied her magazine at the helicopter, before throwing it in the sea with a cry of despair. Artyom laid a hand on her shoulder, powerless to do anything more.

The heat of the explosion made them look up again, at the flaming carcass of what used to be an helicopter, spinning, as it fell into the sea.

« The Boss ! » they heard Cameron scream.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

A dozen of helicopters, having seemingly appeared from nowhere, led by Morpho, Big Boss' personal chopper, had taken on the attacker, striking down enough of them to instill a spark of hope into the eyes of the few survivors that were left fighting for their lives on Mother Base, and giving them enough time to consider their next move. Artyom noticed that a flare had bee lit on the adjacent platform, and that the remaining troops were converging towards it. Before he could say anything, his talkie-walkie emerged from his slumber and the voice of a man, with the loud sound of helicopter blades in the background, brought back the survivors to reality.

"To all survivors, this is Morpho. Rendez-vous on the deck of the hangar platform ASAP for extraction. And be quick, they'll probably hear that as well, and we've already lost most of our choppers!"

No one spoke a word. They rushed to the platform, all with a strange, mixed feeling of hope and sorrow. The platform they were on, having been tilted by the attack, was on the brink of collapse, and so was the bridge to the hangar platform. They had to move quickly before the enemy recovered from the surprise aerial attack, and caught up with them. Unfortunately, none of them had anything that could be used to destroy the bridge for good behind them in order to hinder their progress. In fact, they didn't even have a decent amount of ammunition left to defend themselves had they been confronted with almost any kind of threat. They were damp, tired, shocked, and some of them had been injured. Their only option was to flee. In the air, they'd be vulnerable to the enemy's air-to-air missiles, thought Artyom, but staying on any of the platform, they'd be crushed under, or blown up along with, the collapsing facility, or end up like sitting ducks in the water.

In the strangely calm period of time that it took them to run through the bridge to what seemed to be the last standing platform of the once great Mother Base, questions started to come to his mind. Who were the attackers? Why did they attack MSF? How could they know that it would be so vulnerable at this exact moment? Where was the boss?... But for now, the only question that mattered was: will we be able to get out of here? For now, the half-ruined offshore complex had grown silent again, while the attackers prepared for the final assault on the platform towards which the evacuation helicopters had already started to converge. The group could make their way to the other side of the bridge just like if nothing had happened. The only difference was that the sea, under their feet, was on fire. And they were never coming back.

When they finally arrived at the platform they were headed for, they had to go around the hangar to reach the landing zone. On the way, they came across another, more numerous group, led by a tall, blond-haired, muscular man, wearing sunglasses. Nothing in particular distinguished the man from the soldiers he led, but it was obvious, even for someone who would not know him (which did not exist on Mother Base), just by looking at his expression, and those of his fellow soldiers, that he was their natural and unquestioned leader. But as every member of the other group knew very well that this man was Benedict "Kazuhira" Miller, who only took orders from Big Boss himself, a simple twitch of his head sufficed to make them merge with the rest of their comrades and head for the landing zone. The look of infinite anger in the eyes of Miller dissuaded them of uttering even a single question or remark. In a last moment of collective, disciplined silence, they headed towards the center of the platform.

And then, the assault started.

From all the neighboring platforms, troops started swarming in, guns blazing. The unlucky ones who were still trying to get across the bridges were the first to fall, shot in the back, or, in a last heroic but meaningless stand, weapon in hand, crushed by the overwhelmingly powerful attackers. An helicopter had already landed, and was projecting all over the deck drops of water that blurred even further the vision of the fleeing soldiers rushing towards it. They fixed their eyes full of tears and rain on the red light and they went on, running for those who could, walking for those who couldn't, carried by others for the the rest. Flames burned on each side of their field on view, they heard, behind them, men shooting in their direction, and in front of them, the blades of the helicopter, spinning, and the dim red light, growing fainter and fainter. Some started falling. They heard bullets passing by their ears, touch the cabin of the helicopter. Some turned back, drawing their weapons.

And then, pain. Intense, blinding pain. A bullet had pierced through Artyom's leg, breaking his left femur, and rendering it useless. It was over, he thought. In a instant that seemed to last for eternity, he fell on his knees stared down at the metallic floor wet with blood and rain. A hand grabbed him by the back of his uniform, pulling him back up with superhuman strength. Taggart. Without uttering a word, she put his arm over her shoulder, ignoring his grunts of pain. They went on, their comrades falling like flies around them, the bullets flying, the air burning in their lungs, owing their survival only to chance.

Suddenly, from the upper right corner of their eyes, they saw a chopper emerging from the black smoke, and all rose their heads. And their enemies, Artyom knew, looked up too, for it was Morpho, and aboard it, at the door, a fierce look in his only eye, the face covered in blood, Big Boss. Firing in small bursts, even from the helicopter, even from that distance, all his bullets found their target. Most of the enemy's shots were directed at him now, which allowed the remaining survivors to finally reach the landing zone, where three helicopters had now landed. Taggart, with the help of Cameron, dropped Artyom on the closest one.

"Get in." she said to the British soldier  
"No! I can..."

Before he could say anything more, she had snatched his rifle from his hands.

"This is my fight. Save yourself"

Without waiting for an answer, she turn around, starting almost immediately to shoot.

"Departing in 10...9...8..." the pilot started  
"Come on!" Yelled a soldier next to Cameron, who stood, puzzled, right next to the chopper door.  
"7...6..."

Cameron got inside quickly.

"5...4..."

Someone closed the door.

"3"

Cameron dropped down against it, next to Artyom.

"2"

"Where is Taggart?"  
"1"

"She... stayed"

"Taking off!"

Artyom tried to pull himself up, screaming in pain, but the shakes of the helicopter, and his weak legs cruelly threw him back down. Tears started going down his cheeks.

As the platform started collapsing, the helicopters, and the few precious survivors aboard, slowly flew up, leaving behind them the ruins of their home, and the tomb of their comrades, some still alive, offering their last effort to allow the passengers of the helicopters to escape. The farther they got, the harder it was to distinguish the living from the dead, and before they knew it, the whole complex had been swallowed by the sea, leaving only a burning scar on the dark-blue horizon of the Caribbean night.

Only a handful of men had escaped, from the hundreds of inhabitants that Mother Base was home to. They could not believe what they had been through, how much they had lost within just a few hours, and what little they had left.

A chopper -the one in which Cameron and Artyom were- parted with the others.

"Where are we going?"  
"Splitting to lose them. Boss' Orders"

No one had the force to say anything more. And when they thought it was over, they heard another explosion.

Those who were not already looking turned their head to see, in the distance, Morpho, in flames, spinning down into the abode of Neptune.

Now it was over.

All over.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

-One year later-

It was the time of the day when most people were at home, all windows sealed shut, waiting for the night to bring a little bit of long-awaited fresh air. The only souls to be found in the streets were those of children or dogs, playing outside, still young enough to withstand the suffocating heat, and the occasional lost tourist, who had strayed from the usual scenic route in order to catch a glimpse of a more « authentic » local life, only to find that the way poor people lived here was just just as depressing as anywhere else. There was, however another kind of people that could be seen walking in the streets at that time of the day, in summer, those with no children to watch, no hobby to keep them at home, and no job to distract them from their unquenchable thirst. They met, or rather, were found together, in a local bar, usually for most of the afternoon, and did not talk to each other. This place was their second home, the place where they found some kind of comfort, before they were replaced, in the evening, by younger, more festive drinkers, locals, or tourist from the neighboring, cheaper hotels. When they arrived, they looked at their first drink as if it were their savior, but every time, when they left, they had the same, profoundly distressed look of someone who has just been betrayed .

Artyom sat in a corner, alone, sipping his whiskey faster than he would have wanted, wondering what were the stories of the men who had turned out to be his drinking companions. What kind of story had led them to such an abrupt and bitter ending, what turn of events had shattered their hopes in an instant, destroyed those they love, what gut-wrenching remorse did they felt for the things they did, or the things they did not do, for those they failed what kind of random cruelty life had unleashed upon these miserable wretches ? He did not ask, because he knew very well that no one would recall such stories, and that hearing them would only make him feel even worse. He knew because, like them, he had come here to look for the same thing : solitude and oblivion. No one's company could replace that of those he had lost. And so he had ended up in the poor suburb of a small town in Italy, drinking what little money he had left, not knowing the least what he would do when he ran out of money. He still had the handgun that he received when he was accepted in MSF.

But no matter how hard he tried to forget it, the same event kept resurfacing, sometimes in his dreams, sometimes appearing vividly before is eyes while he was awake always there, somewhere in his mind, lurking. The sound of the helicopter blades. The pilot counting down. The pain in his leg. The fear of not seeing her again. The sudden realization that it was the end. The fury of a man who has lost so much and knows so little about those who have taken it from him. The never-ending sorrow that only grows stronger as time passes and alcohol makes the past brighter and the present bleaker. The worst part of it is that he had already started to forget the faces of his fallen comrades. It felt to him that he was somehow betraying them. And she was no exception. Even her traits were growing more and more blurred. Only her name would soon remain, a name onto which Artyom was now grasping like a castaway would his raft in the middle of a raging storm : Joan Taggart.

This storm had led him here. At some point, he had taken the decision to go to Italy for a while, not that he knew anyone there, or that he had anything special to do. It was just the first thing that came to his mind. He had always wanted to visit this country, but now he realized that he did not care anymore. Once there, he just found a cheap flat to sleep in a quiet neighborhood and since then he barely ever strayed away from the street that went from it to the bar he had quickly made his secondary residence. What was he thinking ? Being in his current situation, _tourism_ would not save him. But then why bother ? He was way beyond saving. He actually _had_ been saved, and that was the very reason he was now so bitterly regretting. Why her, and not him ? Why had fate decided that the wounded, inexperienced soldier that he was survived, when the hero to who he owed everything, whom he admired like no one else, his mentor, died to allow him to escape ?

When he saw the boss' helicopter going up in flames, it barely changed anything. It was inevitable, and they had already lost everything anyway. But then the attackers got away. It was impossible that they had not detected them. It meant two things : their target was Big Boss and the hundreds of people they killed that night were merely collateral damage, and they were so sure that none of the survivors would ever find out who they were that they did not even bother to kill the few dozen escaping Mother Base soldiers. And so they escaped, with what little equipment they had left. The choppers were sold to South American freedom fighters, and then most of the soldiers went back to their home country, in which they would always, from now, feel like strangers. Artyom could not come back to Russia. He did not want to. He did not really care.

Suddenly, a man, tall, blond-haired, came into the bar, making quite some noise, which caused all the occupants of the half-deserted establishment to take a simultaneous look at their watch, surprised to see how early the first wave of young tourists was today, in a way that would be comical, if it wasn't so tragic. But the man was alone, and he was not dressed like a tourist. He did not seem to be a local alcoholic either for he was wearing a suit, and was smiling. He swung by the bar, and asked for a Martini. Everybody, except Artyom, who was blankly staring at the bottom of his empty glass, was looking at him. He did not seem to have noticed him, and yet when, his glass in his hand, he walked straight to the Russian and sat next to him, he was not surprised.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The man had talked for about fifteen minutes. He had talked to him about how he could be, as a former member of the world's most renowned PMC, a valuable asset to his own company, and about how generous the aforementioned company could be in return. He had called him by his name, just once, which was enough. He did not bother to explain to Artyom how he had found him -he did not even ask. It was all a very clever way of letting him know that he was not safe here, that he was not really safe anywhere. Once he had finished, he had laid a card on the table and he had left after politely saluting the barmaid. Artyom had not moved nor uttered any word.

He left shortly afterwards, ignoring the man's card. He was now sitting in his room, on a chair, in front of a desk on which was a bottle of vodka, a handgun, and the card that the man had hidden in his jacket just before he left without him noticing. On the back of it, handwritten, were the following words : « are you going to let them get away with this ? ». This sentence was rolling back and forth in Artyom's mind, like the lyrics of a song that you just can't get out of your head, like a challenge to him, a challenge to take his life back in his hands, and avenge his fallen brothers. A challenge to accomplish his duty. It was, also, and he knew that very well, an attempt to recruit the very competent MSF operative that he was, in order to serve in his own PMC, one of the many that were founded by the end of the sixties. Not all of them had the standing of MSF, unfortunately.

However, Artyom knew, before he cared to admit it to himself, that he would eventually join the man's PMC. It was inevitable. He had been trained for war, he had lived the life of a soldier, his fellow warriors had become his only family, and their death had left him with nothing but a burning desire for revenge, nothing else to do than drinking himself to death, and no knowledge of who he should direct his anger at. So he was angry against himself. He developed a strong feeling of guilt, starting to interpret everything that happened on this dark day as being his fault, mainly the death of his mentor.

The growing guilt and aimless hatred within him soon turned into the idea that he had to do something. And the only escape that he had right now was the phone number that was printed on the card that read: _Pieuvre Armement P.M.C._


	6. Part II- Chapter 1

PART II: RAGING BULL

Chapter 1:

Cameron woke up, as usual, about an hour before the time he needed to. There was no point in looking at his watch, he knew very well what time it was. It had become increasingly hard to sleep after the event. Even several years later, it only seemed to be getting worse. He had tried everything. Medication. Vacations far away. Prostitutes. But nothing seemed to make him forget the exciting taste of the life back home, back on Mother Base. He had also tried alcohol. It didn't work either, but when he tried to stop, he found that he was not able to. He seemed to be always lost in his thoughts, in his memories of that golden age when he was surrounded by his brothers, that time when he could do the job he loved without really having to think about his life. He had taken that for granted. But his home was destroyed now, rotting with the bodies of his brothers and sisters at the bottom of the ocean.

Without realizing it, he had already guzzled down the entire flask of whiskey that he kept in his drawer. In vain. Once the taste had vanished from his mouth and the heat from his throat, it was as if he had drank nothing. He got up from his camp bed and got out of his tent. The air was still cool outside, and the silvery light of the moon reflected on the dunes to give them an otherworldly feel. Cameron grabbed his rifle, slung it onto his back and ascended the rocky hill on which a soldier was posted to watch the surrounding dunes.

"Hey chief!" the guard said. Cameron didn't reply but he made a slight gesture with his head. After a moment of silence, he muttered "You can go and rest now, I'll watch over the camp". The soldier, whose name he couldn't remember, replied with a gesture of his own and headed down to the camp. He looked down at the four tents at the bottom of the small hill he was now standing on. two for the men, one for the gear, and one for Cameron, since he was the leader of this unit. PMCs sent recruiters after former MSF members. Despite their demise, their reputation as an elite force still persisted, and a lot of the survivors of the attack had easily found a job in this booming economy. That was the same for Cameron. He had first refused, but on day he found himself in need of money, so he decided to contact the PMC who had tried to convince him for months to join them. Because of his status, he had been given a position of relative authority. He wondered where the others came from. There had been little conversation between them, so he could only try to guess. Not that he cared. In fact, he was not really able to care about anything now. Here in the desert, the heat melted everything; memories blurred, morality vanished, and the vague illusion of your own existence was quickly swept away with the ever shifting shape of the dunes. The only thing left was the mission, and its vague absurdity.

***

Without realizing it, he had dozed off, and was woken up by voices speaking in a foreign language. Suddenly alert, he crawled toward the edge of the rock to look at the camp. His soldiers were on their knees, or lying down, and a group of men in beige uniforms wearing balaclavas of the same color were holding them at gunpoint. However, they had not noticed the presence of the man watching over the camp from the hill.

Cameron thought about fleeing. He though about surrendering. But he did not think a second about saving the soldiers. He thought about his pay, weighed the probability of his survival in several scenarios. He remembered the great quantity of highly volatile explosives in one of the tents. He estimated that they would all be in the radius of the explosion. He remembered the mission, what his new boss had said about the value of human lives, and the sardonic wink he had addressed him right after. So he aimed at the tent that contained fuel and explosives and pulled the trigger without the slightest hesitation. No one in the camp survived.


	7. Part II- Chapter 2

Part II

Chapter 2

The blades of the helicopter sent sand flying in all directions. The bodies were lying on the floor, aligned a few feet away from the still burning embers of the camp. The boss was there, watching over as one of his men inspected the corpses. He was looking for their dog tags to identify them, even those whose face was left recognizable by the blast, as he didn't know them personally, in fact, no one really took the time to know anyone in this business. It made these kind of moments way easier.

"We're lucky the rebels were stupid enough to send their leader with a small unit like this. The General will be very pleased with your work. Even though you've destroyed most of the gear, there's gonna be less money to spend on the workforce if you know what I mean"

Cameron stood a little apart from the boss, his eyes concealed by sunglasses, paying little attention to what he was saying, his voice vaguely resonating in his head. The soldier inspecting the bodies snatched the dog tags from one of the dead mercenaries, examined it and handed it to the boss.

"MSF dog tags. One of your old mates. The world is really small huh." He chuckled. "Alright, wrap up those who were here legally, torch the rest!"

***

Cameron didn't remember much of the evening when he woke up in his hotel bed the day after. He had vague memories of the flight over the desert in the sunset. The boss talking about the crucial nature of the mission, and the sizable reward it would get him, with regular mentions of how pleased the general would be. He remembered distinctly when his boss handed him the cash, the general who had hired them was there too, not in his uniform, or at least not in his current uniform; he was wearing his red beret from his time in Algeria. He did not remember either how the dog tags of the other former MSF soldier found themselves on his end table. He sat on his bed and looked at them for a while. One of them was bent, both were partially blackened, but the name could still be read easily: Saleem Kebir. The name did not ring a bell, but these were unmistakably from MSF. He tried to remember the faces of those who used to live on the mother base with him, these people that he did not know by name but who he saw regularly. There was a fair chance he had already seen him, the base was like a small village, but people change a lot in eight years.

It all made him feel strange. But before he had time to think about it any more, he heard the phone ring and he remembered that the boss had talked about one last job for the general. He tucked the dog tags into his pocket and picked up the phone. 


End file.
